


The Lions Sleep Tonight

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series, Surprises, home coming, otps being soft grandparents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23804272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Eist knows it's always only been a matter of time before he returned to find someone else in his wife's bed.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	The Lions Sleep Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Did I literally write an entire fic about sleeping while stuck at work, desperate to go to sleep myself? Yes, yes I did.
> 
> Also, just in case you didn't read the series A Summer in Cintra (for shame!), a bit of explanation: Ciri calls Calanthe Lie-na (aka Lioness) instead of grandmother. Likewise Eist's title of grandfather becomes Granfer, because tiny tots are not the best at pronunciation and syllables.

Honestly, Eist should have known it was only a matter of time before he arrived home early to find someone else in his wife’s bed.

She'd hinted at the possibility for ages, it seemed. She'd never lied about the things she did, while he was away. The promises she made, the games she played.

Still, it’s a bit of a surprise.

He arrives earlier than planned, due to strong winds. It’s still dark when his ship slips into port, and by the time he's opening the door to the queen's private chambers, the sky has begun to go slightly grey, dawn still an hour or so away.

It’s just enough light to help him see the truth, so plain before his eyes.

His wife, sleeping so peacefully, sleeping deeper than she usually does when he’s there, obviously thoroughly exhausted by her current bed guest. She usually sleeps on her left side, facing out to wall, and currently she’s flat on her back, right arm reaching further to the center of the bed.

On his side of the bed, the interloper.

He can’t help but smile.

His three-year-old granddaughter, who somehow is taking up more of the bed than his wife. Ciri’s turned slightly sideways, toes digging into Calanthe’s hip, head half-burrowed into the pillows at the upper left corner of the bed. Along the side, Calanthe has built a small wall of pillows, to keep Ciri from rolling over the edge and onto the floor. Ciri has twisted and kicked so that the covers are completely off her body, barely reaching above Calanthe’s knees.

Another unusual note—Calanthe generally doesn’t sleep in bedclothes, but she’s wearing a loose night dress. She’s obviously tossed in her sleep; the pale curve of one breast is nearly slipping out of the dress’ lowcut vee.

He contemplates going over and lightly kissing the skin that will be smooth and soft beneath his mouth, he knows. Figures that she probably still has a blade under the mattress and will slit his throat before she can fully register that it’s him, so best not to.

Instead, he quietly takes off his outer layer of clothing, keeping his linen shirt and breeches. He gingerly removes the small wall of pillows, grin deepening at the fact that Ciri doesn’t stir a bit.

He lifts the coverlet, slowly lowering onto the mattress as he shifts Ciri over, just enough to allow him space.

The dip of the mattress wakes his wife, whose sharp inhale implies that she’s awakened with a start. She blinks blearily, head lifting and looking around in a moment of panic before seeing him.

“Mother of mine,” she breathes in a low tone, slowly closing her eyes and letting her head sink back onto the pillow. “You nearly stopped my heart entirely.”

Eist slips a hand under Ciri’s shoulders, and Calanthe counters by grabbing her ankles. Delicately, they readjust her so that she’s actually lying parallel between them. They both turn onto their sides, to the center of the bed, the small center of their world, most of the time.

She looks at him, over the top of their granddaughter’s blonde head. She lifts her arm, making sure not to disturb Ciri as she reaches over, fingertip lightly stroking the space between Eist’s brows, accompanied by a softly adoring expression still tinged with sleep ( _welcome home_ ). He lets his own hand lightly capture her wrist, bringing her fingertip to his lips for a small kiss ( _glad to be home_ ).

“You’re early,” her voice is hoarse from sleep. Her arm slowly lowers over Ciri’s stomach, almost holding her breath as she waits to make sure it doesn’t wake her. He imagines that Calanthe hasn’t slept too well, having this small hurricane in the bed with her.

“Strong winds,” he supplies, keeping his voice as much of a whisper as possible.

She hums at that. Then ducks her head, snuggling against Ciri. He lets his arm bridge over hers, lets his hand rest on her ribcage, fingertips lightly stroking, lulling her back to sleep.

He’d been wide awake, making his way through the corridors of the castle, eager to see her. But the peaceful spell of the moment is pulling him under. He closes his eyes and drifts into a hazy half-sleep, cherishing the small body curled up next to him and the gentle hand that rests on his bicep, warm and quietly joyful at his return.

He must truly fall asleep, because when he opens his eyes again, the room is much brighter and the entire mattress is wiggling.

“Granfer, Granfer,” Ciri is whispering, but her whisper is still rather loud. Her excitement is unmistakable. “Granfer, you’re _here_.”

“I am,” he opens his eyes with a lazy grin. She’s wriggled onto her side, big green eyes wide and button nose just inches from his, fingertips lightly patting his cheek, as if she can’t quite be sure he’s really here.

“I dreamed-ed you,” she whispers, eyes bright with certainty.

“Did you now?”

She nods, head making a quick, scratching sound against the pillowcase under the force of her certainty.

Over her shoulder, Calanthe shifts, sitting up slightly to grin over at him. She arches a slow burning brow at him. _If only I could dream you back here, anytime I wanted_.

He chuckles silently at his wife’s predictability.

“What are you doing in Lie-na’s bed?” He asks, more out of a desire to simply engage with his granddaughter than anything.

“Sir Hops had a nightmare,” she informs him seriously. She wiggles again, pulling up a familiar and rather over-worn cloth rabbit from beneath the coverlet.

“Did he? A terrible shame,” Eist feigns genuine concern. “Well, I suppose there’s no one better than Lie-na to fight off bad dreams.”

Ciri nods in solemn agreement. Then, shifting even closer, she whispers, “She’s got a special potion, to keep monsters away.”

He takes a beat to look at his wife in askance again.

“Lavender oil,” she supplies dryly. The corner of her mouth lifts, just slightly.

“You hate lavender,” he points out.

She arches a brow, “So do monsters, apparently.”

“Smell,” Ciri practically stuffs Sir Hop into his nose.

Sir Hop does smell faintly of lavender.

He nods seriously. “You’re a very lucky girl, to have a grandmother who knows potions.”

Ciri makes a small sound of agreement. “Lie-na knows every-fing.”

Calanthe hums warmly at that, leaning in to give her granddaughter a kiss atop her head. _That’s right, sweeting._

“That’s because she’s so old,” Eist explains. His wife tenses up, slowly shifting her gaze back to him with a glare that could wither an oak tree. He’ll pay for that one, for certain. He merely winks at her. Her nostrils flare, slightly. She hasn’t blinked, still staring at him with absolute death in her eyes.

He can’t help but grin. She loves him for his irreverence, he knows. She’ll show him just how much, once they’re alone.

Ciri giggles, understanding that Granfer is teasing again. She wiggles, backing closer into Lie-na’s warm body. Lie-na’s arms wrap tight around her, Lie-na’s nose snuffles into her neck, her breath tickling Ciri and making her squirm happily. Lie-na’s teeth gently nibble her ear, intentionally making her breathing quick and huffy, until the tickle of it makes Ciri giggle. Lie-na really is like a big, scary lion sometimes. She roars when she’s mad, and even when she’s happy, she growls and bites—but only gently, Ciri knows.

“Pay no heed to your awful, mean old Granfer,” Lie-na murmurs.

“Granfer’s not mean!”

Eist chuckles triumphantly at his granddaughter’s defense.

His wife shoots him a dark look again. _Bastard. You’re back five minutes and she’s already choosing you over me._

Her anger would be far more convincing if she weren’t smiling.

“Shouldn’t Nanny Torsta be looking for you soon?” Eist asks, shifting slightly as he glances towards the window, as if trying to gauge the time by the height of the sun. “Poor Nanny will have a fright—she’ll think you ran off to join a band of pirates during the night.”

“She kicks and twirls as if she’s fighting pirates in her sleep,” Calanthe returns, deadpan.

He laughs at that, not doubting it for a second.

Ciri sits up fully now. Her hair is sticking up in the back, an absolute rat’s nest of tangles. Calanthe chuckles softly, fingers trying to tame it and failing miserably.

Eist slips out of bed, holding out his arms for his granddaughter, who eagerly jumps into them with a small sound of glee.

Calanthe merely groans and pulls the coverlet over her head.

With a laugh of understanding, Eist kisses the side of Ciri’s head—he is then asked to kiss Sir Hop as well, and he obliges. He puts on a robe, and off they go in search of Nanny Torsta, who apparently is quite used to Princess Cirilla disappearing in the night, whenever the king is away.

Again, Eist has been aware of this trend—Calanthe has told him of it, plenty of times. He promises to return after breakfast, when he’s had some time to take a nap.

When he returns to the queens’ chambers, he finds that his wife hasn’t moved a muscle. This time, he walks over to her side of the bed, spatting the outline of her hip under the cover. There’s a delicious little jiggle from the impact.

“Old ladies need their sleep,” she decrees, voice muffled by the coverlet.

He laughs at that. “As if you have ever been a lady.”

His reward is a low, amused hum. He leans down, letting his hand outline the curves currently buried underneath blankets.

“Get under here,” she drawls, the command warm and welcoming.

He gladly obliges, lightly pushing her hips over so that he has more room. She doesn’t turn to face him, but she does lean back, letting her shoulder blades rest against his chest. She stays like that for a beat before turning her head, humming happily when he counters to meet her in a warm, soft kiss.

“Not the welcome you were expecting,” she guesses, still smiling in lazy joy.

“I do love a good surprise,” he assures her. It’s a bit too warm, with their head ducked under the coverlet, but he doesn’t want to ruin the little world it creates for just the two of them.

“Well, your granddaughter certainly has plenty of those up her sleeve,” she drawls, closing her eyes again.

He chuckles in agreement, hand slipping down to lightly tug up the edges of her night dress.

She shifts slightly, “I’m afraid it won’t be my usual level of enthusiasm—”

“I just want to touch you,” he interrupts, bestowing a small kiss on the curve of her shoulder.

“Touch away,” she returns warmly. Her face turns back to nestle on the pillow. “Wake me up when you want something more.”

He laughs at that. However, his voice is etched with tenderness as he commands, “Sleep. There’ll be plenty of time for more when you can actually keep your eyes open.”

She hums in happy agreement.

He keeps his touches light, stroking up the side of her hip, swirling around to the curve of her ass. She’s so warm and soft, he could cry from relief. He has certainly missed sex with his wife (and that was the most shocking thing he’d learned about being married to Calanthe—he missed sex _with her_ , specifically, with all that she made it, with her ferocity and tenderness and inventive playfulness), but more than anything, he missed the simple intimacies of the life they have here, together. Simply being able to touch her, to feel the solid reassurance of her body next to his, the rasping, dry drawl of her voice in the early mornings, the wolfish grins and snarky quips during the day, the ways she finds to hold his hand, when they’re alone, the way her eyes shine and the color rises on her collarbone, just from that simple act, as if everything they do is a new creation, a first time all over again. He misses her humor, and yes, ever her anger. Misses her words of advice and her inability to let him be anything less than his best self, misses being here to soothe her own fears of failing. Misses the way they gravitate towards each other, even in the most crowded rooms, not two halves but two wholes who enjoy being a set, forever seeking completion.

He lightly brushes his nose against the nape of her neck, currently exposed by the way she slightly dips her head when she sleeps. It’s one of the points she puts her perfume, and his lungs melt at the familiar scent, mixing with the sleepy warmth of her skin.

He misses _this_. All the proofs that she is truly here, truly alive, that this is all real and really happening.

He actually feels the moment her body drops back into sleep, the sudden inexplicable shift, the sudden release of her muscles, followed by the light, droning sound of her snore. He grins happily, knowing his granddaughter, that adorable little terror, is entirely to blame for his wife’s deep exhaustion.

Slowly, as to not disturb her, he gingerly slips out of bed again. She gives a small, dissatisfied sound at the loss of his warmth, and he grins. He moves to the window, pulling the curtains that usually aren’t drawn until winter—thicker, better at keeping out the cold, but also good for blocking the sunlight.

The room is much darker as he returns to the bed, delicately pulling the coverlet from over her head. Her hair wisps over her face, making her look almost as disheveled as Ciri had, when she’d first sat up. Her face is slack, peaceful with sleep. There’s still a light line at the corner of her mouth and it takes every ounce of self-control not to bestow a kiss, just there.

His cheeks hurt from smiling so deeply for so long. He gets back into bed, heart clenching at the little sigh she gives, feeling him next to her again.

He isn’t the only one who misses the soft intimacies of their life together, he knows.

Then she’s shifting, much more awake but still half asleep. She sits up, eyes still shut as she squirms and grimaces slightly, finally managing to pull her night dress over her head and toss it away from the bed. Without further explanation, she turns, tugging at his own shirt. He sits up and removes it, tossing it to land next to her discarded night dress. She lightly pushes him back down, half-flopping onto his now-bare chest with her own, arm hap-hazardously over his torso as her chin shifts to find a comfortable perch on his shoulder.

He gladly welcomes the new position and its lack of clothing between them, hand lightly stroking down the line of her spine.

Within seconds, she’s snoring again.

No, not the welcome home he was expecting. Still, he grins up at the ceiling, absolutely delighted with it, all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, never share a bed with small children. They will end you. Consider this a PSA.


End file.
